


Second Sight

by Pamela Rose (pamela_rose)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24731662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamela_rose/pseuds/Pamela%20Rose
Summary: When the Federation tampered with Blake's mind, they inadvertently removed a vital memory.  While awaiting transit to the penal colony, Cygnus Alpha, Kerr Avon has forgotten nothing. And Roj Blake is the last person he wants to see again.
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Roj Blake
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Second Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Published in Fire and Ice (1990)

The holding cell was comfortable, or as much so as any prison cell could be expected to be, but what it represented made it grimmer than most. As a way station for a one direction ticket to permanent exile, the atmosphere of despair permeating the room was suffocating. An occasional scream of protest wafted down the corridor from someone still accustoming themselves to their plight—or being encouraged to do so by the over-zealous guards.

Kerr Avon, having attained a degree of privacy on a cot in a comparatively quiet corner, easily blocked out the moans, helpless cries and angry squabbles of his fellow inmates. Personally, he was far from despairing, being too occupied in plotting a way out of this sorry state of affairs. So far, several possibilities had occurred to him, but none were particularly strong in the area of escaping with his skin relatively intact and undamaged. Since this was a vital prerequisite, he dismissed them and started over at square one, still confident his intelligence was up to the task of removing his superior presence from this incredibly idiotic mess.

Sensing someone close by, he looked up warily. A rather mousey, totally nondescript young man had settled gingerly on the foot of his cot and was observing Avon with the bright, lively eyes of a hungry chipmunk. Avon noted with amusement that he had selected a respectably distant spot, just out of arm’s reach. Not quite so stupid as the rest of the rabble, then.

There had been an extremely busy and educational quarter of an hour when Avon had first been thrust in this cell of doomed prisoners. In the midst of a wide variety of cutthroats, thieves and murderers, Avon had appeared an easy and vulnerable target, and he was so obviously an Alpha grade, he seemed a perfect scapegoat to their frustrated rage at the system that had brought them to this passage to hell.

Avon despised brawling. but seeing no alternative, made short work of the matter. If they had utilized their tiny minds and attacked him altogether he wouldn’t have had a prayer, but by the time each individual worked up the nerve to tackle him, it didn’t seem worth the bother—not with two of their number out cold and a third screaming about a broken wrist. They’d given him a wide berth and returned to staring apathetically at the walls or whining about the injustice of their fate.

Having made his point, Avon ignored them as beneath his notice. They, wisely, returned the favor.

Except _this_ one.

“What do you want?” Avon growled at him.

“Who? Me? Nothing. What could I want?”

“Well, if you’ve come to pick my pocket, forget it. My attorney already managed that quite well—and worth every credit, as you can see.”

The sharp brown eyes widened guilelessly. “Pick your pocket? Why would you think I—?”

“I’ve observed you liberating a total of three chronometers, two rings and a worthless silver-plated bracelet during the course of the last forty minutes.”

“Me? Not me!” The innocent expression was wearing thin, but the man was certainly giving it his best shot.

“You’re quite good, I’ll grant you that,” Avon remarked grudgingly. “Although what you wanted with that prosthetic finger, I can’t fathom.”

Innocence dissolved into a cheerful sparkle of humor. “Never can tell what might come in handy—no pun intended. I’m Vila Restal, incidentally. Master-thief, master-safe cracker, master-picklock—”

“Jack of all trades and master of none,” Avon finished in a bored voice. “Save me your resume; just tell me what you want.”

“I was only being friendly,” Restal answered in an injured tone. “Face it, with this lot, we can use all the friends we can get, right?”

Avon smiled darkly. “I see. You’re looking for a protector and decided I looked less bloodthirsty than the rest of this flotsam.”

“I can take care of myself, I’ll have you know,” Vila retorted with wounded dignity.

Avon didn’t bother to reply, simply met the smaller man’s gaze squarely.

Vila shrugged. “Oh well, it was worth a try. You might’ve turned out to be a nice bloke.”

Avon’s teeth were very white and not at all friendly. “Nice blokes don’t end up in transit cells awaiting deportation. You’re even less intelligent than I gave you credit for.”

Undampened by either the sarcasm or the feral smile, Vila slouched back against the wall and observed him thoughtfully. While he sensed this man could be dangerous if pushed, he was neither brutal nor sadistic—and that fact alone set him apart from 98% of the other inmates.

Vila said softly, “I could be useful to you.”

Surprised, Avon ran a skeptical glance over Vila’s thin, round-shouldered form. He grinned derisively, “Sorry. You’re not my type. I suggest you try one of the more hairy members of our little party.”

Vila reddened, suddenly embarrassed, and a little startled that after all these years he still could be shocked. “I didn’t mean _that_ ,” he said hastily, appalled that an Alpha Grade would even think such a thing. Not that he’d been around all that many Alphas (except for relieving them of their belongings), but most of them seemed too cold and superior to even _have_ sex, let alone—

Already weary with the conversation, Avon had returned to studying his newest plan for freedom. “What could you possibly have to offer?” he said absently.

Encouraged, Vila rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles loudly. “These hands, my friend, are the tools of a true artist. I can—”

His spiel was cut short by a disturbance at the door. A new prisoner was being ushered inside with the guards’ customary graciousness.

“Would you look at this?” Vila commented in an awed voice. “What’s _she_ doing here?”

Avon spared a second to appreciate the grace and feminine beauty of the newest prisoner as she rose from where she had been tossed on the floor. She spat a particularly nasty curse and gesture at her jailers.

“Charming,” Avon observed drily.

“She’s lovely,” Vila said with admiration.

“Yes; well, we can only hope her self-defense is as dirty as her vocabulary, or she won’t last long with this horde.”

Vila nodded, acknowledging the point. Already the vultures were beginning to stir and murmurs and growls of approval rose from various parts of the transit cell. The woman eased herself cautiously into the corner of the bars and the side wall, facing the growing circle of men.

Worried, Vila turned to him. “Aren’t you going to help her?”

Avon stared at the thief in amazement. “Why ever would I want to do that?”

“Well, you can’t just let them . . .” Vila trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

“On the contrary,” Avon replied coolly, “I most certainly can. But by all means, don’t let my low degree of social responsibility affect you. I’ll admire your heroism from afar. Go ahead.”

“Me?! But I can’t stop them—”

“Precisely,” Avon snapped. “If she can’t take care of herself, I seriously doubt if anyone else can.”

Before Vila could protest further, or even decide if he wanted to, the question became moot.

The woman was apparently more than capable of dealing with the motley and disorganized rush of criminals intent on satisfying their lust and regaining their bruised masculinity. Obviously never quick to learn from their previous mistakes, they misjudged her vulnerability even worse than they had Avon’s. They came away more bruised than she and, if not wiser, certainly more subdued.

Avon, who had been struggling (not very violently) with his seldom-used conscience, found himself relaxing. Despite what he had said to Vila, he wasn’t sure if he had been prepared to watch a woman being raped and beaten before his eyes. But the alternative hadn’t appealed either, so he was just as glad it hadn’t come down to a choice.

He grinned at Vila. “Maybe you should ask _her_ to be your protector.”

Vila glared at him. “Maybe I will!” Then he considered it for a moment, face brightening. “Yeah, maybe I will . . .” Flashing a mischievous look at Avon, he stood and began making his way unobtrusively in the direction of the blonde fireball.

Shaking his head, Avon smiled at the follies of human nature. She’d eat the little shrimp alive. But after taking another long look at the rounded hips, slim waist, and luscious breasts, he had to concede there might be worse fates. Avon turned his attention back to his strategizing.

It was late that evening before another prisoner was brought in; probably the last before departure, as the cell was becoming crowded. This one was carried in unconscious and unceremoniously dumped on an empty cot.

An electrical current seemed to rip through Avon; a shock so purely emotional it nearly burned out what little feelings were left to him. The paper fluttered to the floor and his stylus rolled unnoticed against the sole of his boot.

“Blake,” he whispered hoarsely, dry mouth and the sudden knot in his throat permitting nothing louder. There was no one close enough to hear in any case, and no one to care at the draining of color from his face.

“Roj? How—” His voice choked off completely.

Bracing himself to steady his suddenly shaky legs, he stood and moved to stand over the unconscious form, staring at a face he’d only seen on vid-news for more than six years.

Blake had changed, aged . . . more than what time should have told on a man of his strength and vitality. The curls were still the same, only occasionally lightened with a strand of silver, but there were lines around the eyes and forehead, and there was a sadness of expression even in sleep that seemed born of defeat and sorrow.

 _Ah, Roj_ . . . Avon thought, feeling his own regret curling bittersweet in his stomach. However it had ended between them, he’d never wished to see Blake defeated. And what he _had_ wished for, Blake hadn’t wanted. At least not enough.

Reaching out to touch, Avon brought himself up short, refusing to complete the gesture, clenching his fist to stop his hand from shaking. He took a deep breath, beginning to recover from the initial astonishment and get some kind of grip on his scattered senses. He caught Vila watching him with squirrel-like curiosity, and hoped that his face hadn’t betrayed a tenth of what he had been feeling.

He looked back down at the insensible figure. _Damn you, Blake_ , he thought viciously. _I don’t need this. Not now. I’ve too much else to think about. You made your choice six years ago; it’s too late to change it now. Don’t count on me to get you out of this mess; I’ve enough on my hands getting myself out. Don’t ask anything of me, Blake—I’ve nothing left to give._

Returning to his own place, he located his paper and stylus and settled down again, trying to dam up the stormy flood of emotions, forcing himself not to wonder how Blake had come to be here, who had caught him this time, how badly he had been hurt.

There was no room for any of that. All of his attention must be focused on his own survival; all of his aching pity and guilt was reserved for Anna. There was nothing left for Blake.

In any case, it was all ancient history, and when Blake came to and started playing his manipulation games, he would make that very clear.

“Know him do you?”

Startled, Avon glared up at Vila. “What?”

“The new bloke. You acted like you know him.”

“No,” Avon replied shortly, scribbling another equation. “I was simply curious.”

This rang a bit hollow from someone who had indicated a distinct lack of interest in anyone else sharing his incarceration.

Vila grinned wickedly. “That’s odd, ‘e doesn’t seem your type either.”

Resisting the urge to smash the puckish face, Avon regarded him blandly. This Vila Restal was far too astute for comfort; it wouldn’t help to give him fodder to use against him. Avon decided to change the subject as swiftly as possible. “Not much luck with the lady, I take it?”

Vila sighed, satisfactorily side-tracked. “A regular ice-queen, that one. It’d take a laser torch to thaw her.”

“You surprise me. I thought you possessed enough hot air to melt an iceberg.”

Chuckling, Vila sat down on the opposite cot. “With your silver tongue, Avon, how could I resist being persuaded to be your partner? True, I usually work alone, but with your charm and my brawn, how could we miss? I’ll even go a 60/40 split . . .” Meeting the cold, dark eyes, Vila speedily amended, “Okay, 50/50, but I’m lowering my standards just ‘cause I like you—”

“How did you know my name?” Avon cut in tersely.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Vila looked astounded. “Well, at least everyone in my line of work. Kerr Avon—the man who nearly pulled off the most glorious bank fraud since the Cyborg-Burglar of ‘26.” He kissed the tips of his fingers reverently. “Sweet, my friend, sweet. And clean as a whistle, too. 5 million credits—”

“100 million,” Avon correctly absently.

“Whatever. It’s still a lot of money and a nearly perfect crime.”

“Obviously not quite perfect enough.”

Vila waived the minor detail. “No, the crime itself was perfect. It was just the get-away that had a few snags. Now, if you’d been working with me y’see, that’d all’ve been covered. Always consider escape straight off, that’s my motto—”

“If you don’t shut up,” Avon promised, “I shall certainly shut you up.”

Offended, the smaller man said, “Well, pardon me for existing in the same transport cell—”

“You couldn’t get a pardon if your mother was fornicating with the President,” Avon interjected, amused in spite of himself. If nothing else, Vila could be marginally entertaining. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting back the headache that had sprung up, hoping it would go away if he ignored it—which was a better hope than that Vila would. “Who’s the woman?” he asked without particular interest.

“Oh, she’s Jenna Stannis. A smuggler, and a good one by all accounts. But cold as a mutoid’s nipple.” He took a long, dreamy breath. “Pity. She’s got the most lovely . . .”

“I’m sure she has,” Avon put in. “And you’re lucky she left you in a condition to appreciate it.”

“That’s all you know. She likes me, she does. I can tell. She’s playing hard to get, but she’ll come round. I’ve got a sweet touch with the ladies, I’ll have you know.”

Avon didn’t waste his breath answering this.

Vila glanced over at the still unconscious man, then back at Avon. “You’re sure you don’t know him, eh?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” Avon snarled.

Vila held up his hands for peace. “Okay, sorry. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing a friend of yours.” Then he added wryly, “but I don’t suppose that’d be a problem with you. The odds have to be astronomical.”

“Leave me alone, Vila, before I wring your larcenous neck.”

“You should talk,” Vila muttered as he moved toward the cot where Blake lay.

Avon watched him for a moment, desperately hoping Vila’s pilfering wouldn’t wake the man—then hoping that it would. What would Blake have to say to him after all this time? Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t deal with it right now.

A snapping sound drew his attention to the fact he’d broken his stylus in two. Terrific. Now his calculations would have to be totally mental; he doubted if the guards would furnish another. He could work as easily without it, but it was tedious, and he was furious with himself for such a stupid action.

Folding the paper and tucking it in his pocket, he lay down on the cot and crooked his arm over his eyes.

Blake. Why did it have to be _Blake_?

Suddenly the irony of it seemed too much to bear. At his harsh laughter, one of the inmates moved away uneasily.

* * *

Avon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his burning eyes. How many hours had he been at it now; ten, eleven? In any case, the letters on the computer screen were beginning to blur. A rather definite indication that it was time to take a break.

Coffee, he thought tiredly, then realized it would hardly be enough to keep him going. He needed sleep, of course, but there was no way he would willingly seek it. There was too much waiting for him there in a world in which he had no control.

He rubbed his eyes again, this time seeing stars behind his eyelids, flashing even after he opened his eyes. He could feel a headache building as his mind demanded the rest it craved. Instead he opted for more coffee and perhaps another adrenaline capsule.

As Avon reached the door a man barreled through it, almost causing them to collide head on. He neatly caught Avon’s arms to steady them both.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect anyone to be about at this hour.”

Pulling away stiffly, Avon gave the intruder a quick once over, noting the IDent card and the fact that the intruder did, in fact, have clearance for this area. “Understandable. Neither did I.” He waited impatiently for him to move out of his way so he could continue through the doorway, but the man didn’t seem to notice.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you. I was just going to check a few figures on the probability scan, but if you’d rather have the place to yourself, it can wait. You were here first, after all, and this isn’t even my section—”

Unable to bear with any more chatter, Avon cut in, “If you will note, I was on my way out. I am _still_ on my way out, and if you will just step aside, it will speed the entire process tremendously.”

To Avon’s surprise, the man didn’t budge. In fact, he leaned one muscular shoulder casually against the door frame and grinned. “You’re Kerr Avon.” It wasn’t a question.

“So you can read my IDent badge. How nice for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Hardly needed to read it, did I? Who else in the Programming Section has a reputation for such a sunny disposition? Had to be you didn’t it?” He offered a large, square hand. “I’m Roj Blake.”

Avon ignored the gesture. “Yes, Design Engineering. I can also read.”

Blake’s grin widened. “Delighted to meet you, too.”

Patience thinned to a snapping point, Avon nevertheless restrained the urge to kick him in the leg. If this Blake character hadn’t been over an inch taller and a good deal heavier than Avon, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. Never one to play against the odds, however, Avon held his temper and spoke through gritted teeth, “Was there something you wanted from me? Or have you discovered your purpose in life is to irritate perfect strangers?”

Blake chuckled. “I haven’t decided if you’re perfect yet, but as a matter of fact, I did want to have a chat with you.”

“I thought you said you came here to do research?”

“I did. And I found you instead.” The grin returned, cheekier than before. “Aren’t I the lucky one?”

Letting the sarcasm pass, Avon demanded, “ _What_ did you want?”

Blake straightened. “I’ve been working from your schematics for the past two weeks. There’s a flaw in the design that has to be corrected.” He finally moved from the doorway, allowing room to pass, sensing he finally had the man’s full attention.

“A ‘flaw’?” Avon repeated icily.

“Yes.” Again the smile, sweetly charming this time. “But you don’t seem to be in the mood to discuss it. Perhaps tomorrow would be better—”

Finding this Blake person more infuriating by the moment, Avon snapped, “I sincerely doubt if my mood will improve in the immediate future.”

Blake laughed. “So do I. All right, let’s go to the lounge for some coffee and I’ll explain what I mean.”

Disliking the arrogance of the man—he was from Engineering Section, after all!--Avon was nonetheless curious, and followed him to the lift, telling himself he was going for coffee in the first place.

Ten minutes later he found himself joining Blake at one of the triangular tables in the section lounge. After a few gulps of coffee laced with synthetic adrenalin, Avon felt slightly better. He ignored the knot of tension behind his neck and the burgeoning headache.

“So what is this about a flaw? Are you having difficulty understanding my schematics?”

Smiling at the condescending tone, Blake shook his head. “Oh no, they’re simple enough.”

Avon bristled at the choice of term, but before he could offer a scathing reply, Blake continued.

“The concept itself is fine. Brilliant, even. As a matter of fact, with more work of this caliber, I could almost believe this insane project might be feasible after all.”

Somewhat mollified, Avon permitted himself a small, superior smile. “So what, exactly, is the problem?”

“The circuit connecting A and L link is impossible. It won’t carry the power load safely.”

Avon scowled. “That’s ridiculous! I checked that factor myself. The error percentage is .0037. What’s wrong with that?”

“Not good enough. It’s sloppy and inefficient.”

“You must be mad. That’s far above any rating specs for any—”

“Still not good enough,” Blake repeated flatly.

Frustrated at the solid stubbornness, Avon glared at him. “You realize the safety factor on an ordinary transport shuttle is about six hundred times less.” He paused, smiling unpleasantly, “And your safety factor with colleagues is decreasing by the second.”

Blake laughed again. He had a boisterous and infectious laugh, but Avon didn’t find it catching.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked frostily.

“I’ve just decided I like you, Kerr Avon.”

“Very gratifying, I’m sure,” Avon retorted, sounding anything but. “How can you conceivably see .0037 as insufficient?”

Blake became serious. “Because it is. Too many things have gone wrong with this project. Every mouse that goes in turns up a dead mouse coming out.”

“And you have an affinity for mice,” Avon sneered.

“I have an affinity for human beings, Avon,” Blake snapped back. “Sooner or later—assuredly sooner—they’re going to send a man through this little gadget the Federation is trying so hard to perfect. I don’t want his blood on my conscience; do you?”

Avon stared at him, startled. “Don’t be absurd. The system is nowhere near ready for subject testing.”

“Of course not. But do you honestly think that will stop them?”

“Obviously you don’t.”

Blake’s fist came down on the table with enough force to dance the cups on the surface. “Damn it, man, you’re too bright to be blind to what’s going on! You know as well as I do the Project Head will do anything necessary to hold funds for this. They’re presenting a demonstration for the Council in three weeks’ time. Do you really believe they’ll be content with trying to teleport a bloody mouse?!”

“It would be idiotic to attempt anything else,” Avon said calmly. “They’ll fail.”

Belatedly realizing he’d been a bit over-enthusiastic, Blake ran a hand distractedly through his curly hair and took a deep breath. In a quiet voice, he replied, “Yes, they’ll fail, but it will be a more dramatic demonstration, and that’s what they’ll want. The possibilities of the teleport will be graphically illustrated. Certainly enough to keep the funding rolling in.” Blake smiled ruefully. “Besides, the Federation isn’t known for its rationality—nor its compassion.”

That was so patently true; it needed no reply. And it was common knowledge there were prisoners (condemned criminals, one assumed) waiting on hand for experimental purposes when the need arose. Avon had simply never considered the situation would present itself for years—if at all. As Blake had pointed out, there were still enough bugs in the Aquatar project to keep them all working for a very long time.

“You must realize that improving this one portion of the Project won’t change anything,” Avon out. “They will still do their test.”

“Yes,” Blake replied grimly, “but at least we’ll have done _something_ to make it safer.”

Avon took another sip of his coffee, giving himself time to think. He didn’t like what Blake was saying, but he didn’t doubt a word of it now that it had been forcibly brought to his attention. Political expediency commonly pushed scientific research to the point of absurdity.

Avon finally met Blake’s eyes. “How do we improve the safety factor?”

Blake let out the breath he had been holding. He searched the other man’s aristocratic features, seeing the barriers behind the dark eyes, appreciating them, but discerning that the cold exterior hid much more, or at least hoping that it did. Avon was concerned, and it wasn’t difficult to guess part of the reason.

“I don’t believe your analysis or programs are causing the malfunctions,” Blake offered quietly. “I told you, they’re good, Avon. Conceptually, they work very well. But we deal with only five percent of the total system and that’s just not enough to be able to judge where the problem lies. The best we can do is minimize our risks on the portions we _do_ control.” He stopped, staring down into the dregs of his cup. “At least, that’s all we can do for the present,” he mused.

Impatiently, Avon demanded, “You still haven’t answered my question. You must have some idea of how to improve the design or you wouldn’t have brought the subject up.”

It took a second for Blake to come out of his reverie. “What? Oh, yes.” He jerked a paper from his sleeve pocket. Spreading it across the table, he proceeded to illustrate his points. “If you switch L link with G, you’ll have a greater carrying level.”

“But G link will automatically fail-safe the entire system if the load is too . . .ah, I see what you mean. Close it all down if . . .”

Their heads bent together over the diagram, impatiently grabbing the stylus back and forth as they scribbled out their changes and opinions, squabbling over the best methods to resolve the problem, the time passed unnoticed by either.

At last Avon sat back, tossing the stylus on the table triumphantly. “There, Blake! .0002. Satisfied?”

Blake’s smile was radiant. “Yes, satisfied. Thank you, Kerr.”

“For what? Showing you your shortcomings? You came to me whining about safety factors, begging for a .0008, and I give you—”

“With some assistance,” Blake added, laughing.

“At least you got what you came for.”

Sobering suddenly, Blake met his gaze straight on. “Maybe I just wanted to find out if you cared at all.”

Avon found himself shying away, unable to hold the intense look. “About some crimmo? Hardly. I simply can’t abide sloppy work.”

“Of course,” Blake agreed softly, watching the other man. After a minute he stood up and stretched luxuriously. “Are you about ready to go home?”

“Home?” Avon said blankly. “Ah . . . no. I still have some work that I need to—”

“How long have you been here, Kerr? I know you were signed in this morning—yesterday morning now—at 0600. I saw your name on the log. Have you been here all this time?”

Irritated by the concerned tone, Avon snapped, “Yes, what of it? Haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t make a habit of it.”

Avon stood, bristling. “And I don’t make it a habit of intruding in other people’s lives. If we’ve settled our business here, I shall get back to work.”

Before Avon could turn away, Blake caught his arm. “No, wait. Please.”

Instinctively, Avon pulled free of the grip. “What is it now?”

Abruptly uncomfortable under the defensive glare, Blake shrugged. “I just thought you might want to join me for breakfast. Personally, I’m starving.”

Almost in answer, Avon’s stomach grumbled. He cursed both it and Blake’s amused expression.

“I am not hungry,” Avon said defiantly.

“I’d enjoy your company,” Blake spoke quietly as the other man turned away.

Avon paused. He swung back around, silently measuring Blake. “Would you? I wonder why.”

Blake’s smile lit up his face, boyish and strangely compelling. “I’m masochistic.”

“Clearly,” Avon muttered, but followed him just the same.

* * *

For the first time in weeks, Avon awoke rested and totally relaxed. He lay quiet for a moment, amazed that there was no lingering tension in his body and that he was unable to recall any oppressive or horrifying dreams. Ordinarily they stayed with him for hours in depth and vivid color.

Grateful for the absence of memory on this occasion, he wondered at the cause. Total exhaustion, no doubt, although that had never managed to quell them before.

Then he remembered Blake. The man was a pest. Not content with breakfast the previous morning, he had met Avon after work that evening and persuaded him to come to dinner as well, ostensibly to continue their discussion.

The ensuing conversations, however, had encompassed nearly everything except the Aquatar Project. Against his will and common sense, he found Blake amusing, extremely intelligent, and possessed of a tongue easily as poisonous as Avon’s if his will was crossed. Not precisely the happy-go-lucky engineering lout he would have expected. For a man with an outwardly easy-going nature, he had a rather explosive temper—and as Avon was hardly known for his engaging personality, that temper had ample scope to develop. Oddly enough, Avon had rather appreciated that. It was a refreshing change, if nothing else. Most people learned to keep clear of his biting sarcasm; Blake returned it slice for slice, and seemed to enjoy the verbal jousting as much as Avon.

By the time Avon had finally reached his bed, quite late, his mind had been so occupied in trying to figure the man out he didn’t have time to worry about his dreams.

He realized now, with no small degree of chagrin, that he actually liked Roj Blake. Why, he wasn’t sure, nor was he totally delighted with the idea, but he didn’t shy away from the thought as he would have done the day before.

Blake was an interesting companion. This was something Avon had never sought nor wanted, but now that it had been thrust upon him, he subconsciously welcomed it. At any rate, it seemed to have granted him a decent night’s sleep.

The ambivalent feelings rose again when he found Blake waiting at the transport lift the next evening.

“So what is it you want now, Blake?” he asked disagreeably, pushing back the unwanted warmth he’d experienced on seeing Blake’s smile.

Unfazed by the rudeness, Blake answered, “I managed to acquire some other diagrams I’d like your opinion on.”

Avon’s eyebrow lifted doubtfully. “‘Acquired’? You stole them?”

“Nothing so clever, I’m afraid. I simply asked a co-worker to make me copies. We did a nice job with that first set. I thought you might be interested in trying something different.”

“Why the devil should I want to do someone else’s work?”

“Why, Avon, I’m surprised at you. You should know everyone’s work is based on someone else’s. It’s only a question of improvement. Unless of course you don’t think you can improve on Baric’s designs . . .”

“Baric shouldn’t have been let through first stage computer logic,” Avon snarled back. “I doubt if he can punch up a fruit cup on a food processor without assistance.”

“Well, in that case . . . are you interested in looking these over?”

Avon sighed. “I’m tired, Blake. Can’t you find someone else to harass?”

“I could, yes.” Resignedly, Blake tucked the holocubes back in his shirt. “I take it that means I’ll have to. Well, thanks anyway.”

“Wait a minute,” Avon sputtered, knowing he was being manipulated by a pro, but unable to struggle too hard. “I might as well look over Baric’s muddle.”

“Great,” Blake said with hardly a pause. “Since you’re tired, we’ll go to your place.”

Avon looked at him in disbelief. “Did anyone ever mention you were weak on the social graces?”

Blake’s grin accepted the cut cheerfully. “Maybe you’ll teach me.”

Shaking his head at his own gullibility, Avon stepped into the lift beside the chuckling man.

Roj Blake was going to be a very difficult man to ignore.

* * *

Six years later, in a transit cell awaiting deportation to the penal colony of Cygnus Alpha, Avon found it was still true. Even with his eyes covered, trying desperately to sleep, all of his senses were trained across the room to where Blake had finally come to with Vila’s hand in his pocket. Hearing the rich, deep tones of Blake’s voice again after so many years, Avon resisted the urge to look at him. But he couldn’t shut off the sound of the conversation or stop himself from listening.

Vila was in the middle of his everyone-loves-a charming-thief routine, intent on making Blake his new best friend now that Avon, Jenna and no doubt everyone else in the cell had passed up the offer. Blake, however, seemed to be falling for it. But then, Blake _would_.

More notably, Jenna had been drawn into the chat. Avon found this quite interesting, as the only one she had even deigned to speak with so far had been Vila.

Defeated by curiosity, Avon sat up, watching the way Jenna looked at Blake, noting the half-vicious, half-protective way she nudged his head with her hand.

“Nobody out there gives a damn about you!” After that unnecessarily cruel remark, she moved away to lean against the far wall, her face a study in rage, anxiety and frustration.

Blake just looked worried and confused.

Vila offered Blake’s knee a friendly pat. “She likes you, old man. I can tell.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Want me to put in a good word for you? Stannis and me, we go back a long way. You might even say we’re—”

“Thick as thieves?” Blake suggested absently. “Yes, I’m sure. Get lost, Vila, I need to think.”

Vila shook his head sadly as he stood. “Everyone’s a comedian. Why do I bother trying to be friendly?”

“Vila,” Blake stopped him.

“Yes?” Vila replied hopefully.

Blake simply held out his hand, palm up. “Cough it up.”

Grumbling, Vila dug out the rest of the man’s belongings that were secreted on various parts of his person. “Just keepin’ it safe for you, like I said. That’s the problem with this universe; no gratitude. Everyone’s suspicious. No faith in their fellow man.”

“Shut up, Vila.” Blake pocketed his things methodically.

As the thief moved away and began mixing with some of the other prisoners, Avon took out his precious paper and began studying it intently. Actually, he wound up using it as a shield to unobtrusively study Blake, waiting for the moment when he would be noticed.

At present, Blake was still trying to get his bearings, rubbing his arm which still ached from the over-enthusiastic dose of tranquilizer, and checking out his surroundings. His gaze slipped over the others in the cell, moving to the corner cot where Avon sat.

Tensing, Avon watched for the reaction, steeling himself, determined to make it clear that the past was dead.

It was something of an anticlimax. Blake’s eyes rested briefly on Avon, met his gaze with polite disinterest, then continued scanning the remainder of the cell.

For a second Avon was frozen in disbelief. He nearly called out to make certain Blake had really seen him, but then Blake looked at him again and there was no spark of recognition at all. If Blake took any note of him at all, it was probably because Avon was the only other Alpha in the room. Beyond that, he might as well be a total stranger.

Something was very wrong. While Avon conceded to some small degree of conceit in himself, he was positive he couldn’t have over-estimated his importance to Blake quite _this_ much. Even if Blake had just been using him for his own purposes, he wouldn’t have forgotten him that easily. Nor could he believe Blake was that good at dissembling.

Uncertain if he was insulted or relieved by Blake’s lack of recognition, Avon tried to come to terms with the fact. He knew he had not changed that much. No, if Blake didn’t remember, there had to be a reason for it. Avon wasn’t even sure if he wanted to know what it was, however. This amnesia, or whatever it was, might be easier for both of them. The current situation didn’t exactly lend itself to cementing old emotional ties, particularly those that had been shattered beyond repair. He had to think of his own survival; this way he didn’t have to concern himself with Blake’s as well.

Surrendering to the after-effects of the drugs he had been given, Blake finally curled up on his cot and fell back into an uneasy doze.

Avon tried to focus his attention back on his plans for freedom.

 _Freedom_.

Blake’s favorite word.

Blake’s obsession.

* * *

Avon didn’t want to wake up. In fact, he didn’t even want to move. But whoever was trying to reach him on the comlink was either too stubborn or too stupid to go away. It pinged insistently for his attention.

“Damn!” Praying it wasn’t another creditor, Avon reached out and slammed the palm of his hand against the voice-only button. “What the bloody hell do you want?!”

“Avon?”

Blake, of course. He’d been right on both counts—too stubborn _and_ too stupid. Avon dropped his head wearily back on the pillow. The man should be locked up as a public nuisance. Over the last four months he had certainly become Kerr Avon’s private nuisance.

“Go away, Blake.”

“Avon, what’s wrong? You haven’t been to the center in three days, and you haven’t answered your—And if you cut off without talking to me, I’ll call the monitors to let me into your flat!”

Avon’s hand stopped in mid-gesture at the threat. Blake would do it, too. He sighed, knowing he didn’t have the energy for a battle with Blake. The man had a herculanium-plated skull.

“I’m listening.”

“Good. I’m coming up.”

“Blake, no—” But the comm light winked off. “Dammit!” He started to get out of bed but his head swam alarmingly, and he had to grab the table for support. No hope he would be able to make himself presentable before Blake bumbled his unwelcome way into the flat. And even less hope he would wait patiently outside the door until Avon was ready to let him in. Avon decided he hated Roj Blake, and as soon as he felt up to it he would reprogram the census computer to list Blake as Grade C moron. Then he would have his laundry redirected to Saurian Major. For good measure he would tap into the computer line for the Sanitary System and backflush the—

Before he could finish his plans to make Blake’s life miserable, the door chimed.

“Oh, god . . .” Avon moaned, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow, trying to shut it out. He felt so terrible, just looking at Blake’s ruddy, cheerful, _healthy_ face would probably make him more sick. However, the idea of being sick all over Blake had its compensations.

He stretched out a hand to the console beside the bed and released the door lock. His only alternative seemed to have both Blake _and_ the block monitor invading his privacy.

“Avon?” As Blake approached the bed, Avon did his best imitation of an ostrich. Out of sight, out of mind and—with luck—out of flat.

“You’re sick,” Blake said, not without satisfaction. “I thought as much. Have you called a physician? Have you been to clinic? Are you—”

“Go _away_ , Blake,” Avon pleaded.

“Not until I’m sure you’re all right. What’s wrong with you anyway?”

“I have this parasite. It’s eating away my privacy and the prognosis for recovery is slim.” He turned over reluctantly, determined to use his last ounce of energy to blast the man for the effrontery of coming in where he wasn’t called and definitely wasn’t wanted. To his surprise, Blake actually looked hurt.

“I’m sorry, Avon. I’ll go. But I’m going to call someone to see to you. You look very ill.”

The withering retort died unspoken. Instead Avon merely said, “I am. But it’s nothing very serious. You needn’t have been concerned.”

“Perhaps not, but you look as if you have a fever. Have you seen a doctor at all?”

“Unnecessary. I know what it is. It should run its course in another day or two.”

Blake looked around the room uncertainly. “Well, do you need anything? Medicine? Some fresh water?”

Avon glanced at the empty container on the table. He hated being waited on, but he was thirsty. “Yes, water, please.”

Blake fetched it and poured a glass. Before he could hand it to him, Avon began coughing. It escalated quickly to where he had to gasp wildly for air between bouts. Blake helped him sit up on the edge of the bed and held his shoulders as the attack shook him, leaving him limp and exhausted, sucking in oxygen in shallow gulps.

Levering him gently back to the pillows, Blake felt his forehead and cheeks. “You’re burning up, you fool. I’m contacting the clinic—”

“No . . .” Avon caught his arm weakly. “It’s . . . okay . . . really. Can’t bear hospital.” He took a deeper breath, cautiously testing to see if it was safe, trying to avoid another coughing fit. “May I have . . .”

Understanding, Blake held the glass of water for Avon to sip. He seemed better after it, breathing nearly back to normal.

“Thank you.”

“Avon, what is this?”

“A viral infection. Pops up every few years. Left over from the Bio-wars. Red dragon fever is the common name.”

Blake looked confused “But I thought they had developed immunization for that years ago.”

“Unfortunately, it didn’t take with me. And I’m allergic to the serum, I just have to ride it out. As I said, it’s not serious. I’m susceptible to the weaker strain, not the deadly one.”

“Even so, you need care. Don’t you have anyone to look after you?”

Avon glared at him. “It’s none of your business, Blake. I can do without your pity and your tender mercies—”

The coughing returned with a vengeance, savaging him worse than before. Blake held him through it, tucked him back down and located an alcohol sponge to wipe his face and throat, hoping it would help drop his fever. Avon was too exhausted and shaky to argue.

“That’ll teach you to shout at me,” Blake said lightly. “Whether you like it or not—okay, you _don’t_ like it—” he answered the flicker of fire in the dark eyes, “I’m staying to take care of you until you’re strong enough to chuck me out. So just lay quiet and accept the inevitable.”

Furious, Avon pressed his lips together to keep from releasing a torrent of curses—and probably starting another paroxysm of coughing. For the present, avoiding that was of more importance than venting his rage. But he promised himself he would deliver each and every one of those curses before this embarrassing episode was over.

* * *

“Who is Kass?”

Avon looked up from the broth Blake had forced upon him. “What?”

“You were dreaming earlier. Kept mentioning ‘Kass’. I just wondered who it was. You’ve never talked about—”

“My dreams are no concern of yours, Blake! Can’t you leave anything alone?! Get out of here, damn you!” He swept the tray off the bed and it landed on the floor with a crash. “Get the hell out of my life!”

Blake didn’t answer for a moment, but Avon could see he was angry. For a split second, he even thought he’d angered Blake enough to make him hit him—or walk out for good.

With a stunned amazement, Avon realized that either one would hurt him a great deal.

Avon swallowed painfully and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “That was stupid.”

Blake, holding onto his patience with a heroic effort, stooped to clear up the mess.

Feeling defensive, Avon snapped, “Well, what do you expect? You come in here without being asked, pry into my life, treat me like a child—”

“And so you feel justified in acting like one?” Blake grated out through his teeth. “Congratulations.”

“I said I was sorry.” Avon’s voice was just a degree short of being petulant.

Blake began to chuckle.

“What is so amusing?” Avon demanded, suspecting he was being laughed at. He was right.

“You take yourself so seriously, Avon. Can’t you let up a bit?”

That seemed to pinpoint a great difference in their characters; one that had confused Avon before. Blake did seem to have the knack of laughing at himself, at his own foibles and idiosyncrasies. Avon, finding nothing funny in himself, did not share that talent.

“You, of course, take nothing seriously,” Avon sneered.

Blake sobered immediately. “Oh, no, you’re wrong about that. Someday I just might tell you what it is.” He finished cleaning up the soup and stood, putting the tray and dishes down on the table. “But I’ll tell you something else, Avon, I’ve had about all I’m going to take of the spoiled brat routine. I know you’re still sick, you’re still weak and hurting and hate feeling grateful—”

“I didn’t ask you to come here, Blake!” Avon cut in nastily. “Why should I feel grateful?”

Blake continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “—and I know you hate my seeing you at less than your peak. It ruins the front you’ve made for yourself; that perfect, ice-cold as your computers facade you want to have. I understand you can’t bear being vulnerable. But I have my limits too, Avon. I want to be your friend. So far it’s been damn hard work, but I happen to think it might be worth it. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe I’m just too stubborn to give up. What do you think?”

He waited for Avon to answer. Avon looked everywhere but at Blake. It was several minutes before he spoke, but when he did, the tone was softer and more open than any he’d used with Blake before.

“May I have some more soup, please?”

* * *

Blake came in the bedroom with the mail to find Avon sitting up working a 3-D puzzle block and looking bored.

“I thought you were sleeping. You look better. How do you feel?”

“Obviously not as good as I look. What’s that?”

“The post. It’s been piling up in your mail tube. I thought you might feel up to looking it over now.”

Avon groaned. “I’ll never feel that well.” He accepted the tapes and slipped one into the viewer. He grimaced and shut it off, tossing it and the rest of the stack into the corner.

“Bad news?”

“Merely the sharks circling.” At Blake’s puzzled expression, he elucidated. “Creditors. Angry, unpaid, and therefore unreasonable creditors.” Avon smiled at Blake’s surprised look. “Seeing as you have proclaimed yourself my bosom friend and comrade, you wouldn’t happen to have a half-million credits to donate to a worthy cause, would you?”

Blake grinned back. “Our friendship is too dear to sully it with commercial dealings, my dear Kerr.”

“I was afraid of that. I knew there was a reason I’d never bothered to be ingratiating.”

“You’re not serious about needing a half-million credits, are you?” Blake asked in disbelief.

“Unfortunately, very. It’d just about tide me over until I can get a crack at the Unicorp Computers and wipe my record again.”

“Again?” Blake stared at him. He glanced around the flat in amazement. It was quite plush, far more luxurious than anything Blake had thought about having, but it certainly didn’t come at that high a price. “How could anyone spend a half-million credits?”

“I have expensive tastes,” Avon replied lightly. “And you have no imagination, Blake.”

“I guess not. This place must cost a great deal, I suppose.”

“This hovel?” Avon shuddered. “It’s a last resort. I’m only staying here while I’m working on the Aquatar Project. As soon as I pull enough strings to get into the Banking System, I can clear my credit file and start living like a person again.”

There were about forty questions Blake was aching to ask—not the least of which was if Avon could change _other_ things in the government computers—but he was still too cautious of Avon’s privacy fetish. He was being more candid now than Blake had ever expected.

Avon’s eyes were narrowed dreamily. “Have you never wanted to be rich, Blake?”

Blake shrugged. Money had never been high on his list of priorities. “I’ve got all I need. We’re paid well. Too well, actually.” His face hardened. “Look at the Delta grades. Some of those poor devils just have the dole to exist on. And when there’s a ration cut, they don’t even have that much. Have you ever considered that?”

Avon wasn’t listening. “I suppose if you’ve never been wealthy, you never miss it.”

Frustrated and more than a little irritated at Avon’s blatant lack of concern, Blake had trouble biting back the reply he wanted to make. It was far too early to make his pitch, and he’d never convince Avon of anything by playing on his nonexistent sympathy for the lower grades. Avon, like most Alpha’s, was too secure and satisfied with his own level of existence, subconsciously—and in Avon’s case consciously—assured of their own superiority and their inherent right to be on the top of the social scale.

Blake took a deep breath and tried to keep the conversation going; at least he was finding out something of Avon’s past. “I take it by that you _have_ been rich?”

Avon blinked, coming out of his reverie. “What? Oh yes. Yes, I was. Not as much as I intend to be one day, but you could say we were quite comfortable.”

Noting the ‘we’, Blake didn’t pursue it, afraid any questions on that point would close Avon off again.

Avon fiddled with the puzzle cube, turning it idly in his hand. “My parents were wealthy, you see. Very big in asteroid mining and mineral refineries on the near worlds. They died when I was seven.”

“I’m sorry.”

Avon shook his head. “I never really knew either of them. They left for a space cruise shortly after my brother was born. He was three years younger than I.”

Risking it, Blake asked, “Kass is your brother?”

Avon looked at him, realizing how much he was saying and had said. For a second, Blake thought he would freeze up again, but something in Blake’s eyes must have reassured him. He relaxed and looked down at the cube again, twisting it harder.

“Yes, Kass _was_ my brother. He’s dead, too. Nearly a year now.”

For some reason Blake sensed that saying something now would be a mistake, so he remained silent, letting Avon make his own decision on how much he wanted to share.

It was several minutes before Avon began to speak again.

“When my parents were killed in the shuttle accident, the Federation took charge of us. There was no one else, and the government was quite happy to take our inheritance in trust. Kass and I were placed in a very expensive and very progressive creche.”

Blake winced at the thought. He knew what those places could be like; efficient, sterile and so very cold. It was no wonder Avon’s immunity system was somewhat deficient; the workers and nurses were garbed in ‘clean’ suits and never touched the children directly. These kind of schools were somewhat out of fashion now, but a few still existed—mostly for the very rich who didn’t wish to soil their hands or their hearts with the rearing of their own children. Blake began to understand Avon in a way he had not before.

Taking Blake’s silence for no more than polite interest, Avon continued, “I went to court at fifteen to attain my own power of attorney and was judged adult and able to handle my and my brother’s affairs.”

“So you were rich,” Blake mused. “Does it really make that much difference?”

Avon smiled ferociously. “Oh yes, Blake. All the difference in the universe. It’s power and most important, it’s freedom. No more controls—”

“The Federation controls everyone,” Blake cut in sharply. “Even the rich.”

Avon waived the idea. “Of course. But there are different degrees of control. The more money you have, the less the Federation concerns itself in your affairs. That’s power, Blake. And someday I’m going to have it back and more.”

“But not everyone can be wealthy, Avon,” Blake said bitterly. He started to say more, but changed his mind. The time was still not right.

Suddenly Avon tossed the block across the room. “I’m tired, Blake. I’m going to sleep.”

“I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

“Blake?”

Pausing at the door, Blake turned. “Yes, Avon?”

Avon smiled with sweet malice. “It’s a pity this isn’t contagious.”

* * *

Unsure of what had awakened him, Roj Blake sat up and looked around Avon’s well-appointed sitting room. He had dozed off on the sofa and now it felt very late. A glance at his chronometer confirmed it. Wondering what had roused him, he listened for some sound from the bedroom, but the flat was silent.

Switching on a light, he stood and stretched his stiff muscles. In the middle of a yawn, he caught an indecipherable noise from Avon’s room.

He approached the door hesitantly. He’d said nothing to Avon about remaining for the night, and was prepared to find him furious at the imposition. Avon had, after all, seemed much better and it had probably been an unnecessary precaution.

Avon was still asleep, but he was obviously in the grips of a particularly nasty nightmare. His head tossed fitfully on the pillow and his fists clenched handfuls of the sheet. Drawn by the silent agony, Blake sat on the edge of the bed and loosened Avon’s death grip on the cover, shocked at the heat of Avon’s skin.

“Avon . . . Kerr, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Avon’s eyes flew open, glazed and hot. “Kass? Don’t! Please don’t—”

“Avon!” Blake took his shoulders and shook him.

Gasping, Avon’s eyelids fluttered, trying to rise from the black reality of the dream, but unable to shake it completely off. “Blake? Blake, stop him—”

“Shhh, Kerr. It’s all right. It’s over. You’re out of it now.” He soothed the man tenderly, knowing Avon would hate this most of all—being not only physically but emotionally vulnerable. Yet he couldn’t walk away and leave him to it, even if Avon ended up loathing him for it.

Avon shuddered as he managed to throw off the horror. For a second he let himself be held, basking in the undemanding comfort, feeling safe and content to let his mind drift away from blackness.

Finally he said shakily, “Blake?”

Blake released him and straightened. “I’m here, Kerr. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for the—”

“Don’t be absurd. No one can help their dreams. Not even you.”

“No,” Avon said with a sad smile. “Not even me.”

Having expected the man to freeze up harder than ever, Blake felt uncertain with Avon’s quiet acceptance of the situation. He brushed the damp bangs back from the high forehead. “The fever’s back. Feels hotter than before. Perhaps I’d best call the clinic after all.”

Avon shook his head wearily. “No . . . it’s always worse at night. It’ll pass.”

Doubtfully, Blake fetched the sponge and did his best to combat the heat that burned through his friend’s body. Avon was strangely apathetic, even permitting Blake to remove his pajama shirt and bathe his chest and arms.

It was some time before Blake was confident the fever was dropping. He changed the damp linen and found a heavier blanket to counteract the inevitable chills that followed.

“I hope you’re enjoying all of this, Blake,” Avon said through chattering teeth.

Cheered that Avon had recovered enough to be ratty, Blake chuckled. “Oh yes, every minute of it.” He tucked the blanket in tighter. “Better?”

Avon closed his eyes with a sigh and turned his cheek into the clean pillow. “Better . . .” he murmured in agreement.

“Good. Try to sleep now.”

Immediately Avon’s eyes opened wide. “No.”

Seeing the fear, Blake patted his arm reassuringly. “I’ll be here. It’ll be all right, I promise.”

“No, you don’t understand.” The illness had beaten Avon down, robbed him of much of his usual caution. “I can’t face it again.

“It’s only a dream, Kerr. It can’t hurt you.”

“Oh, but it can,” Avon whispered bleakly.

Blake gave up. Pushing the issue would only make it worse. “All right, then. You need something to take your mind off it. I could switch on the vidscreen, if you like. Or we could just talk for a while.”

“Do you want me to tell you how I lost my money, Blake?”

Blake looked at him, noting the fever-bright eyes, afraid to upset him any more by digging into the past. Still, that didn’t seem a subject he was wary of discussing. “Only if you want to.”

“Come now, Blake. You’ve been pushing and prying into my life since the first night you met me; trying to find out what makes me tick. Don’t get sensitive on me now.”

“Avon—”

“Why not tell you? It’s all public knowledge if you wanted to check.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Avon regarded him steadily. “No, perhaps you wouldn’t.”

Blake dropped his gaze uneasily. That was too close to a lie and he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t lie to Avon. Not unless he had to.

Lost in his own thoughts, Avon didn’t notice Blake’s evasion. “My brother was very different from me. Total opposites. In fact, he even had blond hair and blue eyes. He was pleasant, outgoing, loved to talk and laugh. You would have liked him, Blake. In fact, his personality was similar to yours. Except he didn’t possess your temper.”

“I like _you_ , Avon,” Blake said intensely.

Avon ignored the interruption. “Everyone liked Kass. How could they not? He could make people happy. He had an open, giving nature . . . quite unlike his older brother. True, he had more than a few flaws. He loved to gamble, loved excitement, and had a complete lack of ambition. Kass lived only for the moment. Money didn’t mean much to him either, but he certainly knew how to use it.”

“He lost it all?”

“His own share, yes. Then he started on mine, but I kept that down to an acceptable level. I couldn’t cut him off totally—he was impossible to deny. He could charm anyone—even me. You see, Kass had one serious problem. He was a manic-depressive.” He looked at Blake curiously. “Do you have any idea what that means? Of course, you do. Sometimes I think you are a little bi-polar yourself.”

“Avon, you don’t have to—”

“His highs were incredible. He positively glowed. When he was riding on the crest, there seemed to be a crackle of electricity around him. It was like being in a room with a live core of energy. And when he smiled—” Avon’s voice broke and he paused, gathering himself. “But during the other side of it, the down side . . . He would call me, weeping, falling into that black pit that always waited for him. He was terrified of that pit . . . afraid of what would happen if he ever hit bottom. It scared me too, for years. I’d go to him, tease him, cajole him, bully him out of it. Hold the bastard down and make him listen to me, make him claw his way back out.” He swallowed painfully. “He was the only one I ever cared about, Blake.”

Uncertain of what he could say to any of this, Blake remained silent. Now that Avon had begun this feverish outpouring, he couldn’t seem to stop. Blake had the impression he was talking to himself as much as to Blake.

“There were drugs, of course, to control the condition. But he wouldn’t take them. He had a horror of drugs—or so he said. But I came to believe it was only that he couldn’t give up his highs. They were too good, too precious to him to dull them, even if it meant living with the other side of it.”

Blake didn’t want to ask, knew he really didn’t want to hear it, but Avon needed to tell someone; needed the catharsis it might bring. “What happened to him, Avon?”

“He called me one night, and I didn’t go. Didn’t want to go. I’d been working for hours; I was tired. I’d warned him I wouldn’t play any more games with him, that he had to take the drugs and get himself under control, do something with his life. I was finished being his savior. I’d had enough. I knew he wanted money. One of his glorious highs had cost another cool fortune and he expected me to come to the rescue as usual. And . . . I knew I would. Like always. But not right then. I just couldn’t . . . take it . . . right then.”

Blake touched his hand, gripped it. “Tell me, Kerr. What happened?”

Avon took a deep, cleansing breath. “Nothing very surprising. My brother put a blaster in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

Blake’s grip tightened, lacing their fingers. “Oh, Avon . . .”

“He finally found the bottom of the pit.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Blake said sharply. “If it was like you’ve said, it would have happened sooner or later.”

The dark eyes met Blake’s. “I realize that. Do you imagine it helps?”

“No, I guess not.”

Avon seemed calmer now that the worst of it was out. He took another breath. “Anyway, that finished what money was left. Death duties.”

“The Federation took it all?”

“Most of it. Remember the suicide fines?”

Blake vaguely recalled there was some obscure law concerning the taking of one’s own life. It was seldom invoked, but it probably served the Federation well when they wanted to attach property.

“I’m sorry, Avon,” Blake offered gently.

“Don’t worry; I’ll get it all back and more someday.”

“I’m not sorry about that. The money means nothing.”

Avon laughed harshly. “That’s what you think.”

“What I think,” Blake said baldly, “is that it is safer for you to mourn that than to mourn your brother.”

“Shut up, Blake!” Avon covered his face with his hands. “Please . . .”

Hoping he wasn’t pushing too far, Blake nevertheless pushed farther. “It’s easier because you can find a way to regain the money, Kerr.”

“Stop it!” The words were muffled and Avon was trembling slightly.

“Face what really hurts you and maybe you won’t be afraid to sleep.”

“Go to hell, Blake.”

Blake sighed. “Sometimes I think we’re already there, Avon.”

It was several minutes before Avon regained control. He took his hands from his face and looked at Blake impassively, his pretense restored but rather frayed around the edges. “Well, if this was all calculated to make me sleep, you’ve failed miserably. I’m more wide awake than ever. Your bedside manner is atrocious. And your attempt at psychoanalysis is even worse.”

Blake smiled wanly. “Probably. But my hourly rate is very cheap. I’ll stick to engineering from now on.”

“Well, that’s something anyway. It’s your turn now. Tell me about your family. That will no doubt put me to sleep in short order.”

Blake shrugged. “Okay. I’ve a brother and sister. I see them occasionally. I’ve an uncle and a cousin off world. I used to visit them as a child, but haven’t been back for years. There’s no one else. My parents died a few years ago. My mother first, then my father less than a year later. I don’t think he could bear to be without her. They loved each other very much. We all did.”

“A loving family.” It might have been intended to be mocking, but it was laced with a large dash of envy.

“Yes, I think we were. Still are, what’s left of it. Oh, we fought a great deal. I inherited my temper quite honestly.” He smiled fondly, remembering. “We had a very lively and opinionated dinner table.”

“It sounds . . . comforting.” The tone was almost wistful now.

Blake nodded. “I didn’t realize how much, until it was gone. I come from a line of passionate, stubborn people, Avon. We seemed to squabble continuously.” He directed a smile at Avon. “Perhaps that is why I’m so fond of you.”

Avon smiled back sleepily. “No doubt.”

“But for all the fighting, we felt safe and loved and happy. That’s what I remember most.”

Blake continued to talk, noticing Avon’s eyes falling shut. The even rumble of his voice was having a soporific effect. He rambled on about his family and their life until he was certain Avon had slipped into a quiet and easy sleep.

* * *

In the weeks following Avon’s recovery, the time they spent together gradually increased. Neither of them mentioned any of the personal matters that had come out during the illness, but Avon didn’t put up more than a token protest at Blake’s monopoly on his time. Nor was he quite as icy and aloof as he had been. They still argued continually over almost any topic, but it was a comfortable, homely kind of bickering that generally ended in laughter.

Avon became so accustomed to Blake’s companionship, his first reaction when he noted its absence was extreme annoyance. Blake had left no message of his whereabouts or how long he would be gone. He hadn’t appeared at the Project Center for four days, nor could he be reached at home.

Not being the anxious type, Avon wasn’t worried, he was irritated—preferring to see it as a personal affront that Blake hadn’t bothered to let him know he was leaving. Just as he was beginning to tolerate the man’s abrasive and pushy personality, he had disappeared. Avon found it infuriating and resolved to wash his hands of the entire matter. He would be more particular in his choice of company in the future.

But the evenings seemed very empty.

On the fifth day, very late, Blake showed up at Avon’s door.

“Well, where have you been then?” Avon demanded, feeling a mixture of relief and pique.

“Miss me, did you?” Blake grinned at the other man’s disdainful expression. “I thought not. May I come in anyway?”

Still disgruntled and not bothering to conceal it, Avon ushered him into the flat. Once inside, Blake dropped down wearily on the sofa.

“You look terrible,” Avon observed. He poured Blake a stimulant and handed it to him. “What the devil happened?”

Blake accepted the drink gratefully, taking the time to drain it before answering. “Nothing much. I’m just tired.”

He looked more than tired; he looked totally exhausted, his clothes were a mess, and it didn’t appear the unruly curls had been near a comb in days.

Curious now, but unwilling to admit it outright, Avon poured a drink for himself and joined the other man on the sofa. Blake had leaned back with his eyes closed and looked half asleep already. His face was pale and worn, and now Avon noticed that his trousers were splotched with something he didn’t recognize at first.

“What’ve you got all over you, Blake?”

“Mud,” Blake grunted without stirring.

“Mud?” Avon touched a splotch on Blake’s sleeve. “Where could you have—?”

“Outside, of course.”

Avon stared at him, astonished. “Outside the _dome_? Are you mad? Why ever would you want to go outside?”

“Maybe I needed some fresh air,” Blake retorted grimly.

“You must have needed it rather badly. It’s a Category 4 crime. You could’ve been fined or—”

“So you’ll just have to cover for me, won’t you?” Blake snapped.

“Oh I will, will I?” Avon said coldly. “Why should I?”

Blake opened his eyes and captured Avon’s gaze. “Because I’m asking you to. I’ve been here the entire time, right? I caught your fever and you’ve been nursing me through it until I was back on my feet again. As far as you know, I haven’t left this flat in five days.”

“What the hell are you on about, Blake?” Avon didn’t like the seriousness Blake put on the request. A Category 4 crime wasn’t that damaging.

“I’m serious, Avon. If anyone should ask—and I doubt they will—I hope that will be your answer.”

“Why?”

Blake smiled tiredly. “Let’s just say I can’t afford to pay the fine.”

“Not good enough, Blake.”

Blake shrugged. “Sorry; that’s the best I can do at the moment.”

Avon considered it, wondering why he simply didn’t pitch the filthy, disheveled, pain in the rear out the door and have done with it. Instead he said, “All right. I’ve never found lying to be a moral stumbling block. Do you believe someone saw you?”

“No, but I’d prefer to have a backup if I’m wrong. I was too fagged out to be as careful as I should have been.”

Avon regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, if you’re going to stay here, you’d better get washed up and changed. You can borrow some of my clothes. What you have on is somewhat incriminating.”

Blake roused himself enough to sit up. He smiled gratefully. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course I mind,” Avon grumbled. “But I’ve never known you to let offending my sensibilities slow you down. Go on. I’ll find something for you to eat.”

Forty-five minutes later, Avon located his houseguest flopped across his bed, snoring softly. Blake had made it as far as the shower and shrugging on one of Avon’s robes before fatigue had caught up with him. Avon eyed him with disapproval mixed with another feeling he couldn’t quite name, but dropped a blanket over him and left him to it.

A rather sheepish Blake appeared several hours later. “I didn’t mean to take your bed.”

Avon glanced up from his computer screen. “No? You managed a good imitation of it. Never mind. You look rested and halfway towards being human again. There’s food in the pantry.”

“Good, I’m starving.”

While Blake devoured an amazing portion of the larder, Avon continued his work. A good time later Blake came out munching a piece of fruit for dessert. “This is terrific. All fresh; not reconstituted. No wonder you’re in debt.”

“I told you I have expensive tastes.” Switching off the terminal, Avon turned and looked up at him. “Are you ready to tell me this mystery of yours?”

Blake shrugged dismissively. “No mystery. I simply don’t want to be caught going outside. It stays on your record. Points you out as a malcontent.”

“I doubt they need anything drastic to figure that one out. But why go outside the dome at all? Why take the risk?”

Sitting down on the sofa, Blake steepled his hands together. “Don’t you ever feel smothered, Kerr? Don’t you ever feel you have to escape from it?”

“Escape to what? Mud, wet and cold? No thank you.”

“I’m talking about _freedom_ , dammit! To go where we want, do what we want, to have some voice in how this universe is run. None of that matters to you?”

Avon crossed the room to sit beside him. “We have that now; as much as is possible in this time and place.”

“Oh, yes, we have the trappings of liberty—a high counsel, a president, ‘free’ elections. If you’re an Alpha grade, that is. And even then, you can’t go off-world without a permit, you can’t change employment without a rating card and permission from the government. You can only produce children if the Bureau of Genetics gives the okay, and then they decide the number and sex.”

“There must be limits, Blake,” Avon replied sternly. “A society as large and complex as the Federation has to have some controls or everything dissolves into chaos.”

“And if the people in control are evil, corrupt and unjust, what then, Avon?” Blake demanded passionately. He searched the dark eyes, seeing only confusion and a growing unease. He was saying nothing Avon wasn’t aware of himself, but spitting it out so boldly was something else again.

“Listen, Blake, I despise the government as much as you do, but it’s a fact of life like radiation alerts and traffic tie-ups. A necessary evil. You learn to work your way around it, that’s all.”

“And your loophole is money, right?” Blake said bitterly.

“That’s right,” Avon snapped back. “What’s wrong with that? You want freedom, and that’s how you get it, Blake. No one’s going to give it to you; you have to take it.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Blake said grimly, “but not the way you mean.”

Avon eyed him uneasily, puzzled by the sparkle of excitement in the normally soft brown eyes. Blake looked determined and suddenly dangerous. The very opposite of a cheerful, mild-manner engineer.

“What are you thinking, Blake?”

Blake turned to him, smiling but with a definite edge. “Do you really want to know?”

“Probably not,” Avon admitted. “But you’ll tell me anyway, if I know you.”

Blake hesitated, wondering if this was the right time, or even if there ever would be a right time. He wanted Kerr Avon in the resistance; no, he _needed_ Avon. The man’s talents would be invaluable in dealing with the Federation’s strongest weapons, their computers. This, after all, had been his primary reason in approaching the icy, bad-tempered genius in the first place.

Beyond even that, however, he needed Avon for something more, something intangible but becoming steadily more vital. Avon was yin to his yang; opposite but equal. He had the ability to make Blake focus his thoughts, cut to essentials, defend his position until he, himself, could be sure it was worth defending. Avon could add cold practicality to his own vague dreams—not always pleasantly, but too succinctly to be dismissed.

In the lengthening silence, Avon felt a prickle of apprehension, wondering what it was Blake could have to tell him that was so difficult to say. He endured the questioning scrutiny, noted the speculative glint in Blake’s eyes, and tried to imagine why he cared so much what this man thought and felt. It was a new sensation, this concern for another person’s opinion, and one Avon didn’t altogether care for. But it occurred to him with a kind of sick surprise that he didn’t want to lose it either.

With that realization came another; one with which he was much more familiar. Was that it? Was that all Blake wanted from him? Strangely enough, the idea intrigued him. If that was all it was, he could deal with it easily enough. Perhaps even welcome it.

“Well?” he said at last, with amazing patience. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

Blake blinked, becoming aware of how long they had sat there in silence. “I . . . don’t know. I think I’m afraid you’ll say no without hearing me out.”

Avon smiled, certain of himself now. “You want to ask me something, is that it?”

“I have a proposition for you, but it may be too soon to—”

“Go ahead. I may surprise you.”

Blake was surprised already, and more than a little puzzled. Avon acted as if he knew what was coming. Avon was bright, without mistake, but Blake had been positive he’d known nothing of his involvement with the resistance. Of course, what happened today had unraveled his cover a bit; Avon would have had to be blind not to see something was up, but it was a long step from any of that to open rebellion.

He continued hesitantly, “It has to do with what we’ve been talking about.”

“Freedom?” Avon encouraged.

Blake smiled, relaxing a little. “Precisely.”

“What kind of freedom, Blake? Physical, intellectual, emotional or . . . sexual?”

Blake gulped, eyes widening. “What?” he whispered hoarsely. In the space of two seconds he paled then reddened. Avon didn’t notice; he was pointedly looking at Blake’s hand which rested solidly on Avon’s knee. Blake, having no memory of why he had put it there, pulled his hand away as if he had touched an open laser plate. Even more startling was that Avon—who avoided personal contact religiously—had let it remain there.

“You’re embarrassed,” Avon observed quietly.

“Yes . . .” Blake cleared his throat nervously, regaining control of his scattered senses. “As a matter of fact, I am. I didn’t intend for you to—”

It was Avon’s turn to blush. He didn’t make a very good job of it, as it wasn’t something he very often did, but he straightened imperceptibly. “So I was wrong. I simply assumed . . .” His sentence trailed off in a very unAvon manner.

“Listen, I—” Blake cut off as he noticed the expression on the other man’s face. It had frozen back into the customary mask of aloofness, but there was something there that hadn’t been quite tucked safely away; a touch of wistfulness; a hint of vulnerability around the mouth.

Blake thought very quickly, knowing he probably had seconds to make up his mind which direction to take. Either way, there would be no going back, and a wrong turn would mean disaster. If he lost the ground he had so painfully gained with Avon, he would never recover it. Avon would make sure of that. So what had he done wrong? And how to mend it quickly before it tore open the shaky relationship they already had?

He considered the misunderstanding, running back over the conversation and seeing with amusement how easily it could have been interpreted in that manner. Blake knew he could be very intense at times, and cool, self-involved Avon might well have translated that very passion to a sexual intention without too much stretch of imagination.

But that didn’t explain Avon’s reaction now. It was more than chagrin at the mix-up, nor was it anger that Blake might have felt that way about him; on the contrary, it hadn’t seemed to offend him in the least. No, it was more . . . hurt? Or even disappointment? Was it so out of the realm of possibility that even Kerr Avon—cold, reserved, distant—Kerr Avon craved affection, closeness?

Blake’s breath caught in his throat. Could Avon have wanted him? If so, Avon would have cut his tongue out before admitting it. Or perhaps he hadn’t even realized it himself until he assumed the suggestion was coming from Blake. Either way, it presented a dilemma. If he backed away now, Avon was quite capable of cutting him off for good, out of embarrassment, if nothing else.

The time was slipping away too fast; something had to be said and said quickly. It wouldn’t be difficult, making love to Avon. He was an extremely attractive man; sensual and enigmatic, despite his coldness—or perhaps because of it. Impulsively, Blake made his decision.

“You don’t make it very easy, you know,” Blake offered casually. “And I’m sorely out of practice.”

Avon’s eyes lifted slowly. “What is it you want to say, Blake?”

“Just that maybe you presumed right.”

“About what?” Avon replied, more cautious this time; his eyes dark and unfathomable.

For a split second Blake doubted everything. He would probably make a fool of himself; Avon would probably have him chewing his own teeth if he followed through with this. But it suddenly seemed very worth the risk.

“I want you,” he said softly and, as he leaned forward to touch Avon’s mouth with his own, it was abruptly true of far more than his original meaning. Avon’s computer expertise faded in importance to other, more pressing needs.

Avon tried to pull back, but Blake caught his head between his hands and deepened the kiss, feeling the racing beat of Avon’s heart. Quite suddenly and without warning, Avon surrendered, opening his mouth to admit the exploring tongue, curving his arms around Blake’s wide back.

Blake pushed him down on the sofa, caught in his own trap, and burning with a heat he’d suppressed for too long. For the past year he had immersed himself in his cause, sparing little time or thought to anything else. Now he put that single-minded intensity to the pursuit of Avon’s response.

Freed from his own self-imposed restraint, Avon gave that response willingly, relieved that he had been right and this was what Blake wanted. Sex was an easy commodity, one that Avon could happily enjoy paying. It was the other things Blake seemed to demand that frightened him: confidence, loyalty, compassion, trust.

Blake raised his head at last, looking down into smoky, dark eyes. The face was still hard, but it was the hardness of arousal rather than withdrawal.

“Kerr?”

Avon smiled, eyes glittering with excitement. “We might be more comfortable in the bedroom,” he suggested.

Blake kissed him again. “I take that to mean you’re not adverse to the idea?”

“You hardly gave me the opportunity to say otherwise,” Avon pointed out wryly.

“Uhhmm,” Blake replied, nuzzling Avon’s throat and working on the fastenings of his tunic. “I’m listening now if you want to protest.”

Avon moaned softly as Blake’s hand slid under the shirt to caress a bare nipple.

“Doesn’t sound like a scream for help.” Blake chuckled.

“Well, don’t push your good fortune. If I have time to think about it, I may change my mind.”

“In that case—” Blake stood and tugged Avon to his feet, “—the bed sounds like an excellent idea.”

Sometime during the next few rather enervating hours, Avon made the strategic discovery that Roj Blake was ticklish. He then spent some time researching how much Blake would endure before physically throwing Avon from the bed. If nothing else, it had the merit of being the only means of rendering Blake speechless for a short period of time.

Since Blake was partial to post-coital endearments, this was invaluable to his current bed partner, who had no desire to receive them or—gods forbid—return them.

“Stop it, Kerr!” Blake sputtered, grabbing Avon’s wrists and pinning them over his head with something less than gentleness. It was a good thing he was more muscular than Avon; he certainly wasn’t quicker. “Be serious for a minute.”

Avon grinned nastily. “I seem to recall you telling me I was _too_ serious,” he taunted.

“Only you can be obnoxious enough to pick the wrong time for everything.” He leaned over and kissed him slowly and thoroughly.

“Let me go,” Avon demanded when his mouth was his own again.

“Not a chance.”

Avon calculated the risks, then made a quick and evil move with his knee. Blake dodged it and bit him for revenge.

“Blake! That hurt, damn you!” Avon roared.

“And that little move was meant to be a love tap, I suppose?”

Avon smiled sweetly and tried it again, this time with slightly better luck.

“Ummph! You crazy bastard—” Blake lay full on top of him to prevent further attacks. “Now, try it.”

“Get off! You weigh a bloody ton, Blake.”

Blake kissed the aristocratic nose. “I didn’t hear you complain earlier. No even when I—”

“Blake!”

“Call me Roj.”

Avon glared at him. “I’ll call the Federation police if you don’t let me up.”

Unimpressed by the threat, Blake nibbled along Avon’s jaw. “No you won’t. You love me.”

Horrified, Avon finally managed to get the leverage to throw Blake off. Blake just laughed at him.

“All right, pax. No more tickling and I won’t hold you down.”

“Agreed,” Avon relented, eyeing Blake uneasily. It was hard to tell when he was going to break into another rash of sentimentality.

Blake settled back down on the bed, propping himself up on his elbow so he could look at Avon. “Why don’t you like my name?”

“I have no feelings about your name one way or another.”

“Then why won’t you call me Roj? It’s a bit late to be formal, isn’t it?”

Avon squirmed uneasily. “Blake is a perfectly adequate name. As I don’t know any other Blakes, confusion shouldn’t be a problem.”

Blake sighed. “You’re a tough case, Kerr. Or would you rather I called you Avon?”

“In a word, yes.”

“Is that your way of maintaining your distance?” Blake hazarded a guess. “I think it’s a little too late for that too.” He touched Avon’s check, turning his head to meet his gaze. “Are you so afraid I’ll say it?”

Avon pushed the hand away and rolled over on his stomach. “I’m afraid you’ll never stop saying anything and let me get some sleep. I’m tired, Blake.”

Rubbing Avon’s neck soothingly, Blake whispered, “I love you, Kerr. I wish you could believe that.”

“If you loved me, you’d shut up and let me sleep,” Avon retorted lightly, his tone noticeably indulgent.

And Blake had other ideas. He decided his up-tight, reserved computer genius needed a massage.

Straddling the prone figure, Blake began kneading the well-defined muscles, stroking the smooth back and coaxing the knots of tensions from the shoulders and neck. Stiff at first, Avon relaxed to it slowly, stretching out and accepting the service. Soon he was practically purring with the pleasure of it.

“Avon,” Blake commented as he continued his calming strokes, “do you realize what you and I are doing isn’t approved by the Federation either?”

“Massages?” Avon mumbled sleepily.

“Homosexuality,” Blake elucidated firmly, applying more pressure than was strictly necessary.

“Umph, careful,” Avon chuckled into his pillow. “Blake, they’ve been trying to control that for centuries. Has nothing to do with the Federation. If they tried to invoke that particular morals clause, ninety percent of the Federation troops would be in irons.”

“But it’s there if they want to use it. And if it’s convenient for them, they will. Say, if you ever manage to acquire that tremendous fortune you plan. They could forfeit that and toss you in prison. Do you think that’s fair or right?”

“If you oil the right palms, you could rape the President’s daughter and get away with it.”

“Not always. Not if there’s a reason they want you out of the way. If you were a threat to the Administration, for instance.”

Avon sighed, bored with the conversation. “We’ll worry about that when we come to it, Blake. I haven’t made my fortune yet, and no one is a threat to the Federation.”

Blake paused in his movements, wanting so badly to tell Avon the truth, but still afraid of his reaction. It would keep, for a few days at least. He wanted—needed—some time with Avon just for himself. This interlude filled a gap in himself he hadn’t noticed being empty. He couldn’t risk losing it just yet.

He bent and kissed the back of Avon’s neck. “Worry about it when we come to it, eh? Sounds like you expect us to still be together. I like that. I like that very much.”

Avon didn’t answer, and Blake knew better than to press him. Avon had admitted more than enough for one night.

* * *

Pressing the door signal for the sixth time, Avon cursed fluently. Blake should have been home by now. He had wanted these personnel tapes, and Avon had gone to a great deal of trouble finagling around the computer code locks to get them. While he had no idea why Blake wanted them, and cared less, he knew he had been manipulated into getting them, but he was never able to resist any challenge Blake put to him. It was frustrating to find himself falling for every blatant slur or test of his abilities, but every time Blake set him up he tumbled to it, feeling some childish urge to prove himself.

Avon wasn’t in the mood to wait, but as he started to turn away, he stopped and looked down at the pouch containing the tapes. _Why_ did Blake want them? He hadn’t bothered to scan them once he’d attained the proper access, simply had them transferred to hardcopy. Not for the first time, he wondered what Blake was up to. Avon knew Blake was still trying to suspend subject testing on the Project with little success; two crimmos had died already. But Avon couldn’t figure how these tapes would change anything.

Coming to a decision, Avon surveyed the empty corridor warily, then pried the casing from the Compu-Lock on Blake’s door. It was a relatively simple code if you were familiar with the basic design, and within five minutes Avon let himself inside.

Blake’s flat wasn’t as large as Avon’s, nor as luxurious, but he did have a tiny study with a reader and computer link. Avon switched it on and began scanning the information. Although the records contained classified material, details on medical and psychological files complete with conclusions on flaws, faults and peccadillos of Project personnel, Avon could find little that would be of any use to Blake unless he planned blackmail. Blake had such little regard for money, Avon couldn’t see that as a possibility—although he mentally noted a couple of amusing cases he might find useful himself sometime in the future. Knowledge was always useful, and a little extortion could come in handy.

Deciding to give it up for now, Avon turned off the reader. He heard the outside door slide open and started to call out to let Blake know he had made himself welcome.

“I’m sorry, Roj, I know I’m taking a chance with both of us, but we have to talk.”

The unfamiliar voice froze Avon.

“You’re right, Bran, it is a chance. A damn stupid one. If they even know you’re in the city—”

“No one saw me. I came through the service tunnels.”

Blake still didn’t sound enthusiastic about the other man’s presence. “All right, but you can’t stay long. I’m expecting someone later, and I don’t want him to see you.”

If Avon had the urge to reveal himself, he squelched it now. He had left the door slightly ajar, and he moved silently to it. He could see Blake pacing restlessly back and forth, a frown on his face. The other man was seated, and all that could be seen was the back of his head and his silver hair.

“You still don’t trust him, then?”

Blake stopped and looked down at the man in the chair. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“I trust him with my life, Bran. I don’t have the right to trust him with yours.”

“That sounds like a somewhat limited degree of trust.”

Obviously not wanting to answer that particular comment, Blake turned to the bar. “You’d probably like a drink. I know I would.” He handed over a glass of amber liquid, and gulped down one himself. “Okay, you said we had to talk, so talk.”

“Roj, you’ve got to give this up. Go underground.”

Blake swung around impatiently. “We’ve been through this before. I can do more good working where I am for now. We agreed—”

“No, you wanted it that way. I can understand that. Once you come out openly, your movements within the city will be curtailed. They’ll have a security watch for you and you’ll have to depend on other people for information.”

“Precisely. That’s why I should stay where I am for as long as possible. What good will I do hiding in some cellar, making a few pathetic raids—”

“What good will you do behind bars, Roj? They’re getting closer to you all the time, and you know it. Get out while you can. Underground you can gather a team together and start hitting harder; no more of these piddling raids you’re complaining about now. They had their uses, but it’s time to take it farther. Really make the Federation sweat.”

Blake rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Don’t you think I want to?”

“Then _do_ it. Come with me now. You’re someone they’ll follow, Roj. You’re young, angry and determined. We need you out in the open, sending out vid-tapes, calling for rebellion. Hell, for revolution! We need your voice, man! You’re a born leader. Your talents are wasted as a spy.”

“And I need time, Bran. A little more time.”

Avon backed away from the door, heart pounding sickly. So Blake was a resistor. Well, he was a fool not to have seen it. For not _wanting_ to see it, since it had certainly been clear enough. Blake had practically rubbed his nose in it almost from the beginning.

The sound of his name caught his attention again.

“Roj, this Avon can’t be that important. For all you know, he may be a Federation agent.”

Blake laughed. “No, he’s not _that_.”

“But he’s not with us, is he?”

“Dammit, it takes time! You can’t expect me to—”

“We don’t have time, Roj. I accept that the man is a genius, that he could be invaluable to our cause—but only if he believes in it, only if he’s one of us. If he isn’t by now, he never will be. You’re wasting your time.”

“I happen to think he’s worth it,” Blake snapped. “And it’s _my_ decision!” Then in a calmer voice, “Don’t worry, my friend, I know what I’m doing. You go back and tell Chevrain it won’t be long now. I promise.”

“He won’t like it. Neither do I. You’re a fool to risk so much . . . All right, all right. I suppose you know best. Goodbye, brother. And good luck.”

“Be careful, brother.”

Avon heard the door open and close, then a few seconds later the crash of Blake’s glass against the wall. “Damn!”

Avon stepped out on the sound of the soft curse. Blake had his back to him, shoulders slumped in fatigue or depression, Avon didn’t know or care which. He was too involved in his own anger and the hollow pain in his chest.

“He was right, Blake. You _are_ a fool. But not as much as I’ve been.”

Blake spun around. “Avon! I . . .” His gaze moved to the study door. “You were here the whole time? How did you get in?”

“I had the odd idea I was welcome. I brought you these.” Avon tossed the pouch at Blake’s feet where the tapes spilled out with a clatter. “Better make the most of it, Blake. That’s the last thing you’ll get out of me.”

Blake took a step forward, ignoring the tapes. “You heard everything?”

“I may be stupid, Blake, but I’m not deaf.”

“I’m sorry you found out that way. I wanted to tell you all about it. I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I thought if we could just talk—”

“Save it for your legion of followers. You’ll need all the breath you’ve got to convince the rabble to commit suicide with you.”

“It’s not suicide,” Blake snapped back. “It can work if we stick together. Even the Federation isn’t invulnerable. It’s wallowing in its own filth and corruption right now; a push in the right direction will bring it crashing down.”

“So _you_ can take over,” Avon sneered.

Blake flushed angrily. “So the _people_ can take over, damn you. All the people, not just the pampered, corrupt few. So the regular citizens won’t be cheated and lied to and murdered indiscriminately. So everyone can be treated equally and not just the rich and powerful.”

“How very noble. But you need to rehearse a bit more. The part about lying and cheating rings a little false coming from you.”

“I didn’t lie to you, Avon!” Blake shouted.

“No?” Avon shrugged. “I see. You just neglected to tell me certain pertinent facts—like the fact you were _using_ me. Implicating me in this insane rebellion of yours; risking my neck without my even knowing it. Asking me to cover for you when you knew if you were caught you would drag me down with you.”

“I would have kept you out of it. You know that!”

“Kept me out of it? What nonsense. You wanted me in the thick of it. You expected me to meekly put the noose around my own neck. I suppose the days you disappeared you were busy organizing one of your ‘raids’? And afterwards, when you came to me—” His voice cracked and he broke off, turning away. “Damn, you, Blake. You’d do anything to protect yourself, wouldn’t you? For your precious ‘cause’.”

“Avon, please listen to me—”

He turned back, fighting the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “No, Blake, you listen to _me_. I don’t give a damn about your cause, or your rabble. I don’t care about the starving Delta grades or the wicked Federation. You’ve manipulated me for the last time. From now on you stick to your crusade, and leave me the hell alone!”

In three quick steps Blake was beside him. He grabbed Avon by the shoulders and made him look at him. “No, I won’t leave you alone, and you _are_ going to listen to me, you spoiled, selfish bastard! All of your life you’ve been pampered and catered to because of your wealth and that diamond-sharp mind of yours. You don’t look at the world anymore, you look in a mirror—and you’re so fucking self-satisfied, you wouldn’t dream of changing it!” Blake’s voice was twisted with rage, but his eyes were shining with unshed tears. “You have a heart, too, damn it! Oh, Kerr . . .” He trailed off, anger fading as quickly as it had sprang up.

Avon shoved him away violently. “Save the histrionics for the rabble, Blake. They’ll appreciate it more. Now get-out of my way so I can get the hell out of here.”

Blake blocked his movement toward the door. “Avon, please. I know I’ve hurt you. It’s my fault; I should have realized how you would feel—I _did_ know and I suppose that’s why I kept putting it off—but just listen to me for five minutes, and I’ll let you go without another word, I swear. What we’ve had together must warrant at least that much. You owe me a chance to explain.”

Avon took an unbelieving step back. He laughed harshly. “Now that’s rich coming from you. You think I _owe_ you something? You’ve used me, jeopardized my freedom, _fucked_ me, and you’re calling in debts?”

“It’s not the way you make it sound. None of it.”

“Isn’t it? Are you going to stand there and tell me that the only reason you came to me in the first place wasn’t because I might be of use to your damned resistance movement?”

Blake opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, feeling helpless. He ran a shaking hand through his curls and tried again. “All right, that was my intention originally. But—”

“Exactly.” Avon started for the door again, but Blake caught his arm. “Let me go, Blake,” Avon hissed warningly.

“Yes, that’s how it started, I admit it. But it changed, Avon. What I _felt_ changed. Yes, I want you to work with me, to join the rebellion. But I also need you for me. Just for me. I love you, Kerr. I know you don’t like me to say it, but I do love you.”

“How dare you say that?” Avon’s voice was bleak rather than angry.

“Because it’s the truth. I think you _know_ that it’s the truth. And even if you’ve never said it back, I know you love me, too. Does it matter how it began?”

“Oh yes,” Avon said huskily. “Yes, it does. It matters to _me_.”

With something like a sob, Blake grabbed him in his arms and kissed him. Avon let him, but returned nothing.

Blake released him finally and stepped back. “You mean it, don’t you? You’re going to walk out now, and there’s nothing I can say to stop you, is there?”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Avon walked to the door. He paused there, without looking back.

“There is _one_ thing,” he said quietly.

Blake swallowed painfully, hope rising. “What? Anything!”

Avon turned. “Give it up. Tell me you’ll forget the whole pipedream of defeating the Federation. Promise me that and I’ll stay.”

Blake’s heart plummeted. “You know I can’t do that.”

Avon hesitated, then said, “Not even if I tell you I love you, too?”

The expression in Blake’s eyes was tragic. He spread his arms wide, helpless. “It’s not just about you and me. I have to try. I can’t stop.”

Avon’s smile was bitter. “I didn’t think you could. My brother couldn’t stop either. Goodbye, Roj.”

“Kerr, no—”

But Avon was gone.

* * *

Avon was so lost in thoughts of the past, he didn’t notice Vila’s approach until he made himself comfortable on the foot of the cot—to Avon’s intense disapproval. Vila overlooked the caustic reception, and proceeded to spill out the gossip he had so assiduously gathered.

Feeling it would take more effort than it was worth to squash the little thief, Avon let him stay, only half-listening to his prattle.

“You never can tell, can you?” Vila was saying with the sad air of one whom life enjoyed disillusioning. “He seemed so harmless; so much nicer than you . . .” He stopped, observing Avon out of the corner of his eye. “Uh . . . I mean . . . he’s a friendly sort and all . . . and you’re . . . _not_. Anyhow, he didn’t even get mad at me liftin’ his goods.”

“What are you babbling about?” Avon snapped.

“The new fellow, Blake. Arco knows what he was nicked for. Found out from a guard in D block. You know who he is, don’t you? Roj Blake—some political muckety-muck from a few years back. Quite a come down, I must say.”

Avon gave Vila a disgusted look. “And what do you think you know about politics?”

“Same as anybody else,” Vila retorted, then looked bewildered. “This Blake fellow stood for prime minister or something, didn’t he?”

Avon smiled. “Oh, yes, Vila. That was it precisely. You’re obviously very knowledgeable.”

Stung, Vila responded, “Okay, so maybe that wasn’t it. I’ll have you know I was being ‘adjusted’ at the time. Very hard to keep up with current affairs when your brain is being stir-fried. Anyway, I know he was somebody big. But it’s what he’s been up to lately that’s the real kicker.”

“And what’s that?” Avon inquired, feigning a disinterest he was far from feeling. “Assassinate the President’s pet poodle for being undemocratic?”

Vila shook his head, missing the sarcasm. “There’s a list of charges against ‘im longer than your arm—starting with willfully injuring a minor and ending up with moral deviation, with a few little extras like kidnap and corruption of children thrown in for good measure. Seems he likes little boys and isn’t picky if the feeling isn’t mutual.”

“What?” Avon sat up straight. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s just what I was saying. He doesn’t look like a child molester, does he? Of course, they always say those kind of people look just like everyone else—and I always say Alphas can be just as twisty as anybody. Probably worse.” Suddenly remembering who he was talking to, Vila added weakly, “I could be wrong, of course.”

“He was arrested on _those_ charges?” Avon was dumbfounded. Sedition, treason, even terrorism, but not— The very idea was utterly bizarre. Impossible.

“And convicted, I’d say. Either that, or he’s got a very odd choice of holiday spots.”

Avon shook his head, baffled. “I was certain he must’ve been involved with the dissidents again . . .”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him?” Vila asked shrewdly.

Avon glanced at Vila, cursing his slip. “I don’t. But I _do_ know of him, you simpleton. As you pointed out, he was news a few years back. He was one of the leaders of the resistance movement until he was captured.”

“Really?” Vila looked over at the subject of the conversation. Blake was sitting on the edge of his cot, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting gloomily on his hands, staring down at the floor. “What did they do to him? I heard they transported all the rebels to a colony planet.”

“He confessed his crimes against the state, proclaimed he’d been misled and misinformed about the quality of our fantastic Federation, and the black sheep was brought lovingly back into the fold.” Avon was also looking at Blake, recalling the committed, stubborn man he had known. “And I never believed a word of it,” he added matter-of-factly.

“You think he was adjusted?” Vila felt immediately sympathetic. “Poor bastard.”

“No . . . It would take more than simple ‘adjustment’ to whitewash that particular black sheep,” Avon commented thoughtfully. For the first time, he considered the full implications of Blake’s nonrecognition of him. He had suspected from the first that Blake’s capitulation and rehabilitation had been neither as easy nor as sincere as the Administration broadcast it to be, and now he was beginning to understand the reasons.

“Well, considering what he’s done now, it’s probably a good thing the revolution failed. He’s sick. Nothing’s worse than kiddy fiddlers.”

Avon said impatiently, “You must’ve got it wrong, you idiot. Stop taking what Arco says seriously; he has the intelligence of a piece of lint. Blake’s here for rabble rousing again. He must be.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Vila pointed out. “They don’t send revolutionaries to Cygnus Alpha. It’d spoil the moral tone of the place.”

For a second Avon was startled. “No, they don’t do they?” Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s nothing to me.”

“He says he’s innocent, of course,” Vila continued. “But I doubt if that will help him if Arco can work some of the others up to go for him. Don’t like child molesters much, this bunch.”

“They’re certainly in the position to judge moral deviations,” Avon remarked drily. He surveyed the mixed group of inmates, intersecting a couple of nasty looks directed toward Blake, but most of them were too busy pitying their own fate at the moment. Recollecting Blake’s sheer bulldog strength and hot temper, Avon couldn’t see any of them as much of a threat. “I don’t think he’ll spend much time worrying about it. Give him a week and he’ll have them all singing ‘We Shall Overcome’.”

“Eh, look at this! He has visitors; I wonder how he rates that?”

Eager to pick up all the information he could, Vila left the cot and moved casually toward the front of the cell where Blake was conversing with a man and a woman.

Weary of thinking about Blake when his time would be better spent evaluating his own situation, Avon lay down on the cot and turned his face to the wall. The next time Vila mentioned Blake’s name, he would thump the little toad.

Deep down, however, he feared the old nightmares would return, but this time as dreams of a different sort. Dreams of fierce yearning that had haunted him even more than the nightmares. He had believed he had freed himself of them.

Perhaps neither he nor Blake would find the freedom they so desperately desired. Blake from the Federation—and he from Blake.

Stuck on Cygnus Alpha, they would not achieve either goal.

* * *

 _So we do have another chance after all_ , Avon mused, inspecting the alien weapon.

“Well, it certainly gives one a feeling of independence.”

“What does?” Blake asked.

“ _This_.”

Blake turned to see the weapon pointed at his head. Regarded him impassively, Blake said, “You’re a free man.”

“That’s right. So I am.”

Blake turned his back and walked away, speaking to Jenna, “How does it handle, Jenna?”

Blake’s dismissal of the threat would have been insulting if it wasn’t so expected. He had never been a man easily intimidated.

Avon dropped his menacing posture and swung the gun back down to his side. He strolled over and tossed it carelessly on the sofa. Oh, well. It was too early to make a move in any case. Certainly not until he knew how to manage this wonderful ship. And he would need both Blake and, more importantly, Jenna, to assist him in that task.

Avon was determined to never be manipulated or used by Blake again. Unless it was on _his_ terms. One way or another, he tended to be free of Roj Blake.

Even if he had to kill him.


End file.
